


for she is an angel

by grandstander



Category: Gangsta. (Manga)
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 15:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4882054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandstander/pseuds/grandstander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>and so he asks himself, is there salvation?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> just some nicolex drabbles
> 
> feel free to send me prompts @ espanya on tumblr

How many times has it been now, been like this? Waking up with skin crawling and silent sobs caught in thick lumps in throats, eyes blown wide from terrors so newly found they are beginning to run together. Oh, how the number’s been lost, and it’s not even as if they take turns. There’s a call in the night air, there’s a feeling in Nicolas’ chest and maybe it could be called worried, maybe it could be called things he wouldn’t rather name, and with steps that could fell a titan with ease he’s at her door, her shoulders are shaking as if there’s an entire earthquake in her body and her nails have curled into her skin so there’s bright rivets. 

Nicolas isn’t quite sure how to be gentle, but oh god– oh god, does he try, try with an ache in his ribs to rest his palm against Alex’s quivering body and the voice that’s caught like a mess of cob webs in his throat tries to shake free. He says her name, and her eyes shot open, and Alex looks like a trapped animal and she looks as if she might have lost another life in her sleep. 

Oh, what a terrible thing to sleep through the end of your world over and over. 

He says her name again, and it looks like her soul settles back into her broken bones, and he feels a pang in his chest because he knows that pain, and he wouldn’t wish it on her. Alex looks at him for some time, and she’s not sure what to say, because there’s some pleas and apologies wound up in her throat and stuck like a cotton ball, so she just swallows and raises slowly from the messy heat of the blankets. 

It’s again, when the days wane and Nicolas hasn’t met sleep for some time, when his shoulders slump finally and he’s forced to break apart, like a machine with no more energy. His breath thunders in his chest, sweat breaking across his skin, and all the bodies and blood merge together, and it merges with his. There are faces and there are faceless. There is she, Veronica, and oh what an agony to see her and not be able to touch her (but then again, after such agony brought by him, it is a sin to want such). He feels sorrow, he feels the grace of God leave him, even though he believes in no God. 

Her steps are soft, even if Nicolas cannot hear her, but at times it looks as if she is emerging from the clouds, with her heels raised slightly and her frame pulled in and long, soft fingers brushing against his skin. He jolts awake, head snapping round and there’s a loud smack of his hand meeting the skin of her forearm, ‘til he recognizes the feel of her thumb against his lips and there’s a pulse of regret and want in him. Nicolas exhales against her skin, shaky, as if afraid to breath too hard against the hand of an angel. 

At such an hour, the expanse of his internals is open, and the pillars of wars long ago fought can be seen, his body aches a little and his hold tries to become gentle, and her other hand rests against his cheek. It is a gesture of sweetness, of calming, the same as his hand against her shoulder and the many times this has been done. A shame, they know this pain, and a shame to see it in each other when they do not want another to feel they way they do. 

At least they understand each other.

Nicolas knows himself to be a bastard at this point, to be a reckless man, and it’s when Alex is next to him like this he wishes he could go back in time and change it all. He wants to beg for all his years back, to have all his future years. What a tragedy to meet love when his days were few. It seems the old poets were right; love is all but a tragedy within the play. 

His hands reach out to Alex, because her eyes look heavy (she was looking for him, she could not sleep without him), and she settles against Nicolas with fingers brushing against the tapering edges of his hairline, a rhythm of her fingers curling against it and his arms wrap around her waist, and in the silent painful hours of the night comfort is found until daylight will find them.


	2. Chapter 2

Her palms fit easily within his; his hands are large and rough, there are scars pricked against the curves and his knuckles jut out so obviously. His skin is paler compared to hers, too, and its in passing glances she realizes this, how his nails are kept almost as short as can be, there’s often times grit stuck under what bit of it that isn’t too short. 

Really, his hands are not beautiful things. They are not the delicate curves of a Renaissance painting, much like Alex’s seem to be ( or perhaps Nicolas just hasn’t paid too much attention to a woman’s hand before, perhaps the only thing he knows to compare them to are the paintings he’s seen in fleeting glances inside of chapels ). Alex’s skin is soft, the underside of her palms a little lighter and pinker than the rest of her skin, the few times he has pressed soft touches to it he feels as if he make very well see why she has so much faith in her God. 

Alex’s existence is enough to atone to him– _isn’t it?_ Then again, Nicolas is probably enough to say he is no more, he’s dead and gone and has left his children to rot. Monster, beast, liar, killer, disgusting.. words that rack the inside of his body, words that make him grit his teeth and make his blood run cold. 

But, _oh Lord_ , oh Lord when she looks at him, and he feels as if there is a small soft haze blooming in his gut and he feels there’s a piece of light in him, a seed of love and hope. Nicolas would much rather wrap it up and put that little seed in her hands; her soft hands, her hands that shouldn’t have faint scars on the back and should only ever be kissed and held. Hands filled with blessings and love and forgiveness. 

When the tips of her fingers brush against the high angel of his cheek he turns his head towards, his palm covering hers easily and he buries his face against her hand. It feels even softer against his lips, dry and cracked and he still presses a faint kiss to them, his breath shaky by the time he exhales. Nicolas holds her hand there, and she lets him, a gentle smile perched on a beautiful, loving face. 

She looks like an angel. 

The way his hand covers her own is perhaps a bit alarming on the surface, but she takes comfort in it; the lulling heat of his skin, the roughness of his skin like the canvas of a painting. His thumb moving over the back of her palm, and there’s a quiet sigh that leaves her. Nicolas, as great a force as he is, feels like protection. Sanctuary, a place to heal, she can heal within his arms and that is the most wonderful thing he could give her; space, support, love. A wretched man he is, but oh how she loves him. 

And in what little he can offer her, and what little she can make of herself, she too tries to give; she gives her gentleness, her attention and affection. She gives him her palms pressed to his skin, his head resting on her chest as she hums and combs his short, messy hair with her fingers. An awful world they’re stuck in, too, but seems they make the most of it, for themselves and for each other. 

Alex’s other hand comes to rest on his other cheek, deep black-brown eyes opening slowly in their silent haze to look at the woman who may as well be the only angel God could send him in his last hours, and she presses a soft kiss to his forehead, and they press together in a hope to give to each other what they both need.


End file.
